Such Fleeting Paradise
by tbossjenn
Summary: Tom confesses to Peter - Slash, but nothing too graphic


Such Fleeting Paradise

by tbossjenn

Disclaimer: I don't own the movie or the characters, but I can't get enough of 'em.

* * *

"Tom is beautiful."

"You're such a liar!" He wound the scarf around his fists and pulled it taut. Ready.

"Tom is a mystery."

Peter's elegant voice made his body vibrate against Tom's ear. Tom turned his head slightly and breathed in his scent.

"Tom is not a nobody."

_No._

"Tom has secrets he doesn't want to tell me, but I wish he would."

_I can't, Peter ... I can't .._.

"Tom has nightmares ... that's not a good thing."

Soon. Any minute now...

"Tom has someone to love him. That is a good thing."

_Oh, God._

"Tom? You're shaking like a leaf. Are you all right?"

"Do you really want to know my secrets, Peter? Do you?" Tom stood up suddenly and walked across the room. He put the scarf back around his neck. He could still do it. If he had to.

Peter sat up and looked at him with a troubled expression. "I don't want to force anything out of you; I respect your privacy. But I hate to see you tearing yourself up inside."

Tom wanted to cry. This incredible man cared enough to want to help him, and Tom was about to kill him - snuff out his very existence and then dump his body where it (hopefully) would never be found. Never to be mourned as he should; except by Tom, that is. _What the hell?_ Tom thought. _Either way, Peter's not getting out of here alive_. 

He turned back to his friend (they were not yet lovers, thanks to Marge and those damned rings) and found himself calm and strong, perhaps for the first time in his life. "I killed Dickie in San Remo and travelled under his passport in Rome. Freddie found me out, and I had to kill him. I almost killed Marge, too, until you walked in on us." Tom said this last part almost regretfully. Even though he was off the hook with the Italian police, the American detective, and Mr. Greenleaf; Marge would always be out there accusing him. "And now Meredith Logue is on board, and she only knows me as Dickie Greenleaf, not Tom Ripley. I _would_ kill her, but she's with some relatives and I can't very well kill all of them, so ..."

As Tom plunged into his little monologue of homicide, Peter's concerned expression gave way to horror and finally astonishment. Then he did a surprising thing. He laughed.

Tom was taken aback. This was not the reaction Peter was supposed to have. Peter was supposed to fly at him with his fists, scream for the police, curse him, spit at him, _yell_ at him for Christ's sake! He wasn't supposed to be laughing on the point of hysterics. "I'm not joking Peter. For Gods sake, I'm serious! Stop laughing!" 

Peter calmed down, and the concern was immediately back. "I wasn't laughing at _you_, but at the irony of it. I do believe you, and I love you all the more for it."

"What?"

"Let's just say there's a couple of reasons why I haven't gone back to England. I'm not in trouble, I just don't feel very ... comfortable there."

Tom backed away. "No, I can't believe that," he said nervously. "Not about you. You're still joking with me."

"Dear God, my boy, did you think you were the only tormented psychopath in the world?"

Tom was afraid. His beloved, gentle Peter was a killer? It wasn't true ... it couldn't be ...

"Don't look at me like that. We're alike, the two of us. We both know that murder can be necessary sometimes. It comes more naturally to us than to others, but that doesn't mean we like it." 

Peter wouldn't lie about this. Peter never lied about anything. How he managed to hide himself so well behind that beautiful smile puzzled Tom, but he looked at Peter's grave expression and _knew_ that he was truly looking into a mirror. 

"You got to open your door, Tom," Peter said, almost fearfully. "Now I've opened mine. Do you want to come inside? _Will_ you come inside? Please?"

A tear trickled down Tom's cheek, and he quickly went to Peter and put his arms around him. "Yes, I'll come inside if you will."

"Deal," Peter murmured against his ear, and his warm breath sent a delicious shiver down Tom's spine. Peter stepped back a little and touched his cheek, wiping away the tear. "You were planning to kill me just now, weren't you?" he asked softly, removing the scarf and lying it down on the bed. Tom merely nodded; for some reason he couldn't speak. There was something seductively vicious about Peter now, and it mesmerized him. "Naughty boy." Peter lowered his head and began to plant kisses along Tom's neck.

"Peter ..." Tom closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around the older man's neck, tangling his fingers in the dark hair.

"Shall we plan on how we're going to kill Meredith and her bunch?"

Shocked, Tom tried to back away but Peter held him tight. The Englishman's eyes, though clouded with lust, were serious. "We have to, you know this. You were right - you couldn't have done away with the whole lot of them on your own, but I think the two of us can pull it off."

Peter _was_ right, of course.

"Well, I think we'll have to wait until we reach Greece. We won't be able to ... to ..." Tom faltered as he felt a pair of hands trace their way down his chest to his waist. Peter tugged at his shirt until it came loose, then slowly pulled it up and over Tom's head. Peter gazed at him, letting his hands delicately explore the younger man's smooth skin.

"Go on, love. You have my _complete_ attention."

Tom took a deep breath and continued. "We won't be able to take care of them on the ship. When we land in Greece, we'll keep tabs on them and find a good time to do it there." He gasped as Peter kissed his shoulder.

"You have such a lovely body, my darling."

"What about you?" Tom asked, almost breathlessly. "Don't I get to see you?" Suddenly, all thoughts of murder were banished from his mind.

"Mmm, yes; of course," Peter whispered, then leaned forward and kissed him. His scent made Tom lightheaded, and he felt overwhelmed by his presence. Tom loved it - loved _him_. For the first time he could remember, he loved someone and was loved in return; and there were no more secrets. Not anymore. Everything was finally cleaned out. Peter pulled off his shirt, and Tom reached out and touched his chest. His skin was so soft. 

"Now the pants."

Peter smiled. "My, aren't we eager? All that silly nonsense about murder sure has you fired up."

Tom froze. "What?" he asked, trying to sound natural.

Peter nestled his head on Tom's shoulder and said, "Well, at first I thought you were actually confessing to murder! But then I realized it was a game - you were trying to seduce me, you little devil. So I decided to play along even though it seemed a tad grotesque, and I'm glad I did. I can't remember the last time I wanted somebody so much. I want you, Tom. I want you ..." Peter kissed him again, and Tom kissed him back with a passion he didn't know he had. Secretly, though, he was dying inside. It was as if someone had shoved him back into the basement and the demons had been waiting for him all along.

Peter's pants were now down around his ankles, and he kicked them aside. "Now for _you_," he said, and there was a wicked gleam in his eye. He slowly worked his way down Tom's body and began to unfasten his pants. Tom could barely stand it; he had never felt such pleasure in his life. But he couldn't focus all of his attention on Peter's ministrations.

He was too busy thinking.

the end


End file.
